


PART THREE: Dead Memories

by the1crazycatlady



Series: Love of My Un-Death [3]
Category: Dracula & Related Fandoms, Dracula: Entre l'amour et la mort
Genre: Drug Addiction, Drug Use, M/M, Mental Link, Near Future, Nightmares, Souled Vampire(s), Stalking, Trans Character, Trans Male Character, Vampires, implied polyamory
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-13
Updated: 2016-03-13
Packaged: 2018-05-26 10:27:44
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 7,285
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6235009
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/the1crazycatlady/pseuds/the1crazycatlady
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Johnathon Harker, world-famous journalist, has decided to go to Wallachia to figure out if all the rumors about the Un-Dead are true, and he's taking his photographer, Renfield, with him. Renfield is very indifferent to the matter, but soon something in his head starts telling him what to do: this is Count Dracula, alias Count Wallachia.</p><p>(Because that is SUCH a great fake name. Definitely not fake at all, nope.)</p><p>(Part 3/7)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**_March 12th, 2050_ **

One would expect for there to have been some sort dramatic build-up, but it actually happened rather suddenly.

Dracula was sitting in his armchair in the foyer that evening, staring up in fond contemplation of Elhemina's portrait. Then, suddenly, he heard her laughter.

He was startled, mostly because he was surprised that he remembered what her laugh sounded like- There it was again. Elhemina. Elhemina _laughing._

He knew he was alone, that Maeva, Lurlene, and Deli – his vampiress wards – had gone out to find some unsuspecting peasants to seduce and kill for cheap romantic pleasures. No one else was in the castle, so where had the laughter come from? Was he finally going mad?

Dracula stood up. Looking around, his gaze landed back on Elhemina's portrait. The portrait itself did not change, but, again, there was her laughter.

“Elhemina!” he cried, lunging towards the portrait. He ran his fingers all over the frame, blinking back the blood that threatened to drip from his eyes and sighing, kissing the frame with his black lips. “Mina, my love...”

She laughed again. It was a foggy laugh, but nevertheless full of life.

Dracula wanted to dance with joy, but instead grew somber – yes, Elhemina was out there, somewhere. But he didn't know where that “somewhere” was. But he would have to find her, wherever she was. He had waited five centuries for her, and now there was _finally_ a chance again, after all this time...

He would just have to know where to look for her.


	2. Chapter 2

**_April 16th, 2050_ **

War was a weird thing – death was everywhere, as was sorrow and hate and screaming. Red became the color to be avoided as it was a sordid reminder of all the blood slowly replacing the oceans. Everyone lived in constant paranoia, and if you were on the opposite side, _watch out._

And yet people were fascinated with war. They _liked_ to hear about the bloodshed and murder, because it never hurt them, oh no. It was other families that got hurt, not theirs'. They were safe, always safe, so they kept up with the news. They watched indifferently as the death statistics grew higher and more people were made homeless; it was entertaining.

War made Johnathon Harker a very busy journalist. This, in turn, made Renfield a very busy photographer; unfortunately, however, Renfield had problems focusing.

It was Sunday, the day when all devout church-goers would attend mass and send up prayers to the Lord. Renfield didn't go to church, not anymore, but the Van Helsings did. So he pulled his hood up and over his eyes and took a seat in the pew two rows behind where they sat religiously every week.

Lucy didn't look as happy as she normally did, but she still radiated her young beauty with complete and total ease. Renfield's heart pounded in his ears as he pulled out his camera and stole a quick snapshot. The buzz he felt when he heard the quiet click was almost as intoxicating as a heroin high, and he couldn't help but smile quietly to himself.

Throughout the course of the service, Renfield couldn't stop staring at her. She had beautiful, string-like blonde hair halfway down her back. It obviously wasn't natural – the way it captured the light, the lemony color... It wasn't a natural blonde. She had brown roots peaking though the yellowness.

She also had soft brown eyes that reminded Renfield of kitten fur, all fluffy and warm and full of love. When she looked at you, it seemed like she thought you were the entire world. Of course Renfield knew that she'd never think that way about him, but it felt so good to fantasize. He could lose himself in his daydreams for hours, and sometimes whole days were lost to his sweet Lucy.

The Van Helsings stood up and pulled money from their back pockets; they were going to give charity, then get hot chocolates at a nearby cafe – that's what they did every week, you see, and Renfield knew of all of their little rituals. Well, all of Lucy's little rituals, anyway.

If only she really loved him, he thought sadly. She was so beautiful and she always smiled at Renfield when he asked her to before taking a picture. She walked with absolute grace, and she was a proud woman, for God Himself protected her from reality.

God wouldn't let him enter into her life; he was an abomination. He was a misplaced freak. He wasn't worthy of her. All he could do was grip at the outside of the cage she kept herself locked in and watch. Always watch and always photograph and always lose himself in the daydreams.

There was a light sprinkling of rain outside, so Van Helsing pulled out an umbrella and held it over his and his daughter's heads. They started to walk to their little cafe, oblivious to Renfield's presence. He had his hood up and the rain made goosebumps rise up on his bare arms.

They went inside, bought their cocoa, and took their usual seat next to the window. There, they could watch the world go by and take advantage of any sun that came through. Renfield went to the back, into a dark corner where the only person to notice him on a blue moon was the nosy cook.

Nobody else was in the cafe except the person at the cash register and the cook in the kitchen area; Renfield could hear Lucy arguing with her father.

“Don't go there, Lucy,” Van Helsing said. “It's dangerous.”

“Why?” Lucy wondered defiantly. Her voice resonated through the cafe, bouncing off the glass surfaces and lighting up Renfield's gloomy face.

“You too?” Van Helsing asked sadly. “So, you want to change the world, too?”

They were talking about Wallachia, Renfield realized. He took a picture of Lucy so he could admire her stern and beautiful face later.

Wallachia was one of those oddball countries, centered right in the middle of the warzone but thankful enough not to suffer like the other places. True, it _did_ have immense populations of homeless people, and there was famine, and was, overall, a pretty lame country to be stuck in, but at least it was better than the other places.

However, in the past decade or so, more people had started to die – but not from starvation or AIDS or anything like that. They just disappeared, really, and strange tales of the living dead started to circulate themselves around the world.

 _Un-Dead, not living dead,_ Renfield corrected himself; Grandpa Bram had made him a vampire-knowing menace.

Anyway, upon getting wind of this strange story some three years ago, Johnathon Harker and Renfield had taken a trip to Wallachia. There, they met Elhemina “Mina” Murray, a beautiful activist who had later become Johnathon's fiancee, and the Van Helsings: Dr. Abraham Van Helsing and his young daughter, Lucy.

The group had kept in touch, and now they were all considering going back to the strange country to try again to figure out what was happening – or Johnathon and Renfield were considering going, at any rate. Van Helsing had been spooked by the paganistic nature of the natives and Mina had other engagements; Lucy would go wherever her father went.

“Yes,” Lucy replied. Then, in a stronger voice: _“Yes._ And why not? What have _you_ ever changed? Always alone in your quest for eternity!”

“I am not alone,” Van Helsing replied. “We are not alone: God is with us.”

Lucy heaved an exasperated sigh, rolling her eyes at the ceiling and taking a sip of hot chocolate. _“God!”_ she scoffed.

Van Helsing shook his head, sighing. “What's the use?” he wondered. “What's the point of discussing it?”

They were quiet - Lucy appeared perturbed. Eventually, she spoke up again.

“Father,” she began, voice sad, “will you please explain to me why you won't let me live my life as I want to? Here and now?”

But Van Helsing just shook his head without a word.

“I'm not your little girl,” she explained, “that knows nothing of life. I know of the horrors of the war, Father, and of the misery. You speak of these dangers to me, Father, but you shelter me from them.” She paused. “I don't want to be blindfolded by fear.”

“Lucy-”

“I have the right to see,” she carried on, “and to know. Why can't I know what you know? Both sides of the coin? Father, please let me choose. Let me be free. I want to do so many things, Father, and I'm old enough now - I'm twenty.”

But Van Helsing just shook his head again. “Lucy, the world isn't what you think it is. It's dangerous, and I don't want you to get hurt.”

Lucy reached over and grabbed his hand, smiling. “Father, what are you trying to hide from me? I just want my own life – is that so much to ask?”

“Why do you speak to me this way, Lucy?” Van Helsing gave her a small smile. “Perhaps you don't love me anymore?”

Lucy shook her head. “No, Father, never. But my heart won't rule my head – this is what I want. Please let me have it.”

Van Helsing promised Lucy that he would think about it and the two got up to leave. Renfield stood up, preparing to follow after them – after Lucy – but then his cell phone rang. He swore quietly, pulling it out of his pocket. He glanced down at the caller ID and went pale.

“Renfield, hi!” a man greeted when Renfield picked up.

“Hey, Johnathon.” Renfield prayed that Johnathon wouldn't ask about the pictures for next month's article. He working on them, yes, but things were... _difficult_...and if Johnathon kept asking about them, Renfield didn't know if he'd be able to get them done-

“Renfield, do you think you can get over to my place in an hour?” Johnathon asked. “It's about the Wallachia trip.”

Renfield watched as the Van Helsings disappeared around a street corner. “Yeah,” he said numbly, heart falling. “I can get there in an hour.”

“Brilliant.” Renfield heard Johnathon shuffling through some papers on the other side of the line. “Thank you so much, Renfield – see you in an hour?”

Renfield nodded, knowing full well that the action was pointless, since it wasn't as if Johnathon could see him. “An hour.” He slipped the camera into one of the pockets of his coat. “I'll be there.”

“See you soon.”

“Bye.”

“Bye.”

Renfield hung up and pushed on the front door of the cafe. The bell chimed and the person at the cash register told Renfield in their blasé voice that he should be sure to come again. Renfield ignored them, hurrying out and looking around.

Lucy was gone.

He sighed and put his phone away. He hung his head and kicked at a rock on the sidewalk. Then he straightened up and pulled back his hood. Suddenly, he saw movement out of the corner of his eye and turned, glimpsing a shadowy figure clad head-to-foot in brown leather. Renfield drew in a breath and did a three-sixty, watching as the figure disappeared behind a lamppost and dissolved into dust. Before it vanished, Renfield saw a symbol on the back of its leather jacket.

It was a dragon clutching a cross.


	3. Chapter 3

**_April 24th, 2050_ ** **_  
_ **

There was a crescent moon that night: God sending a crooked white smile down to the world. Dracula pulled the curtains in and the room was entirely engulfed in blackness. Being nocturnal, he hardly noticed the change in lighting and simply went over to his chair, sitting down and resting his chin on top of his cane. He began to trace his fingers along the engraved dragon, admiring every groove and letting his mind wander.

It was a beautiful night, the type of night where he liked to roam around as a fog and let the winds guide him for a few hours. The weather was good, so the vampiresses had gone out again.

But Dracula couldn't join in on the festivities tonight; he had work to do.

Somewhere out there, Elhemina was drawing close. He could _feel_ her presence, and the beast inside clawed to have her again. But it would have to be patient. He had waited five centuries – what was another few months compared to that?

He focused intently on the memories of sweet Elhemina, his hands gripped tightly to the dragon engraving. _Elhemina, Elhemina, Elhemina..._ His mind traversed thousands of miles to a clean little office.

It was a home office, and the first thing Dracula saw was the sleek and shiny leather flooring. After that, there were bookshelves filled with all sorts of old works, as well as a blindingly clean metal desk with engraved legs. On the desk was a computer thing and what the Count thought was a printer. To the side of the computer was a coffee ring permanently stained onto the sleek metal: the desk's sole blemish.

Four people were crowded around a man sitting at the desk. Focusing, Dracula was barely able to get a look at the crowd – three men and two women. _Elhemina_ , something whispered into the Count's ear. _She is here._  He looked around at the people, trying to distinguish them all apart.

The older woman sat on the desk, gazing fondly at the man seated in the leather computer chair. Then, standing behind the man in the chair, was an older man with thick, bushy eyebrows; he had his arm wrapped tightly around a young blonde girl. Finally, all by himself and slightly separated from the group, there was the third man. He was clutching at his inner right elbow and staring blankly at a bookshelf, head cocked slightly off to the side.

"...renfield...!" someone said. In the memories, the voice was husky, like a spiderwebby whisper – one couldn't say who had spoken, male or female.

The third man jerked his head away from the bookshelf and stumbled over to join the group. He mumbled something, but Dracula couldn't discern the words no matter how hard he focused.

The people continued on talking; Dracula tried to get a better look at all their faces so he could distinguish which one was Elhemina, but it was too much to ask. His head began to hurt and he gave up, instead focusing on keeping his concentration in the memory.

"...eild and John...going to Wallachia..." they said. "...et to the bottom offt...fore..." The sentences were lost with time and distance.

There was some sort of mutual consensus and everyone shook hands, nodding and making to depart. The blonde girl went with the older man and the people at the desk said something to the remaining party.

The third man shook his head. "...home myself..." Then he went over to the door and opened it.

Something tugged on Dracula's mind and pulled him over to this strange man. The Count heard Elhemina's laughter and he put a hand on the man's shoulders, latching himself to him. The man looked back and blinked, but he didn't see Dracula. He _couldn't_ see Dracula, not unless he looked back at the scene later and found the Count's mental footprint.

There was a sort of harsh tugging in his mind and the Count groaned, pulling himself back in the chair to keep from falling forward and disrupting the mental link.

When things had focused, the scenery had changed to a grubby little apartment. The sink was stacked with dirty dishes, the counter riddled with unpaid bills and closed boxes. Beyond all of it was a living room area with walls covered in photographs, some of good quality and others not but nevertheless quite admirable. Looking down, one saw a holey couch with a fold-out bed; lying on the bed next to a cardboard box, his breathing deep and uneven, was that third man. Dracula suddenly wondered what his name was – Renfield, perhaps? That was what the person had said to get his attention...

The man groaned, sitting up. His arm dangled over the edge of the mattress and he suddenly convulsed – this caused something in his hand to slip and fall. It shattered upon impact with the floor.

"Shit," he breathed, flopping back. The image slowly became splotchy and jerked; Dracula heard someone crying out, even going so far as to shriek and start crying a little. Eventually, the breathing became more normal and everything around the Count went black. Dracula was concerned at first, worried that the connection had been broken, but then he heard someone's heartbeat and sat, waiting for the man to reveal himself again.

There was a ship far out at sea, a black ship that felt soft to the touch. Looking out into the water, Dracula saw that the vessel didn't cast a shadow on the waves, despite the fact that the moon was very bright – it couldn't cast a shadow because the ocean itself was a mass of shadows, each overlapping themselves and each other to create a dark pit.

Renfield paused, looking around. There was suddenly a loud groaning sound and he gasped, falling back as the ground tilted suddenly. The dark waves began to engulf him and the ship, and, screaming, Renfield slid down. He was sucked into the night and, terrified, he looked around, suddenly unable to breathe.

Something reached out from behind and put a hand on Renfield's shoulder; the man gasped, stepping away. In front of him was a horrific-looking beggar with a dagger clenched tightly between his teeth. Something long, thin and sharp glistened in his hand.

Renfield shrieked and backed further away, but there was a loose woman blocking his escape. Renfield gasped, watching helplessly as the madmen and whores multiplied and began to surround him, shoving him down and attacking, plunging in the syringes wherever they could get the needles to penetrate his sweat-drenched skin. Renfield sobbed and screamed and the world became a jerky phantasmagoria of emotion and color.

It ended suddenly. Startled, Dracula jumped, but he quickly latched back onto the strange man before it all could disappear without explanation.

Renfield was lying in a tangled mess of sheets, staring up the ceiling; sweat dripped from his brow and down his neck. His face fell and he sat up, only to fall forward on his knees, shaking and grabbing at his arm. He was mumbling something - Dracula's head hurt from the excursion of stepping deeper into the memory, but _something_ was drawing him to this man and he couldn't pull away.

"...lucy!..." Renfield sobbed. "...love, lucy!..." He tipped sideways and pulled his arms over himself, weeping.

Dracula's head cried out in discomfort and the Count began to consider leaving the memory before it hurt more – but then a phone rang. Renfield jerked up, looked around the flat, then reached over to the bar. He picked up a battered green cell phone and brought it to his ear, trembling. "...R-R-Renfield speaking..." He wiped his eyes on the hem of a blanket, then wrapped it around himself and shivered.

The conversation was difficult to discern. A sharp pain grabbed at Dracula's head and tried to tear him away – _no._ This man could be of some use to him – after all, from what little Dracula had seen, he could conclude that the man grasped the sorrows of love...

"...omorrow...?" Even with the foggy state of vocals, Dracula could hear the strain in the man's voice. "...star shipyard...arrive in wallach...?"

It was hard to focus; the image began to splotch and Dracula could hear wolves howling outside his castle. _No._

"...may thir...sss, johnatho..." He said the name like a Frenchman: Joh-nah-tawwn-

The pain grabbed at Dracula's mind and pulled, threatening to rip it to pieces. It was too much – he screamed and fell forward in his chair. His cane flew away from him and he pulled his hands to his head, whimpering and gasping. He couldn't think and his breathing was suddenly too uneven. “Make it stop!” he shouted. “Make it stop!”

At length, when the pain had subsided, he took a deep breath and rolled over onto his back. He began to rub at his temples, then opened his eyes. Blinking, he saw his barren castle foyer, the fireplace that hadn't been lit in centuries, and the paintings – himself and Elhemina.

He stared at Elhemina and hurt again, but this time in his chest. Moaning, he rolled over and pulled himself up onto his knees, then looked around for his cane. Grabbing it, he used it to help pull himself up; his head ached and throbbed. Holding it in his free hand, he stepped over to the chair and sat down, resting his elbow on the arm as support for his throbbing, aching head.

He sighed.

May third – that was just over a week away; that hardly gave Dracula enough time to prepare for their arrival. They would be arriving in Wallachia on some sort of ship, via the Star Shipyards. Dracula groaned and shook his head, looking back up at Elhemina.

Dracula didn't know how, but, somehow, that Renfield man could link him to her. He would... _help_ the vampire... Receiving help was an unsettling notion to the Count, but he couldn't bear to get so close to Elhemina after all those centuries and not have tried every possible option. He was desperate, and he was blind and vulnerable with love. If he could get this man to link him to Elhemina, then...

He shook the thoughts away, standing up. It would be sunrise soon – all the details could be dealt with tomorrow.


	4. Chapter 4

**_May 3rd, 2050_ **

Everywhere, hands grabbed him. They slid themselves around his throat – which was cold and dry in the bitter sea air – and then they traveled along the sides of his body. Renfield shrieked and their eyes glittered at him: small slits of gleaming light in the darkness. The daggers were harsh against their teeth, but Renfield didn't pay attention to those – the syringes were the most important.

The cool metal needles always hurt, but at least he generally took some necessary precautions. The madmen and whores didn't; they just blindly plunged the syringes into his body, laughing as he screamed in pain. And, somewhere out in the distance, the man was watching: the man with black hair and orangey-brown leather clothes – he was a new addition to Renfield's nightmare. He always just stood there and watched it happen, ignoring Renfield's pleads for help and then disappearing just as things got bad.

A woman pulled him back and pressed her heel into shoulder. He groaned, trying to close his eyes so he wouldn't have watch the suffering, but they suddenly wouldn't shut. He was forced to watch as she bent down, lips pulled up into a horrible smile around the gleaming dagger.

She made a noise, a leather flapping. Instantly, Renfield had a flashback of when he was eight and Grandpa Bram first told him about the aswang – when they flew away, wasn't it a leather flapping people heard? Renfield gasped, screaming.

He sat up. His heart pounded in his chest, and it seemed as though he'd taken a bath in his own sweat. He couldn't breathe, those people were hiding everywhere, they would come and kill him, the aswang-

Someone laughed. “Ah, Renfield!”

Turning, the addict saw Johnathon smiling at him. Renfield heaved a sigh of relief – _damn you, Grandpa Bram_ – and Johnathon slipped off the bed. He began to pace around their cabin.

Renfield laughed nervously to himself. “Johnathon!” He stood up and saw that the other man was turning over the letter in his hands, brow furrowed in confusion.

Renfield's face fell and he reached out for the letter. Johnathon smirked, holding it away from him until Renfield grabbed his arm, panting, and snatched it out of the man's hand. He looked at it again, sitting down on the edge of the bed.

A distinguished-looking messenger had brought it to him earlier that evening. The man's voice had been deep and husky, very gruff, and he'd had his greying hair tied back in a ponytail. He'd given the letter to Renfield, saying it was from a Count Wallachia – the addict hadn't had much chance to look at it yet. He had managed to open it, but then the drugs had taken hold of him and he seemed to have seen himself on the paper. He'd gasped, and everything had gone splotchy after that.

Renfield exhaled, opening the envelope again and pulling out the letter.

“Hey,” Johnathon muttered, looking at Renfield strangely. “You've been dreaming?”

Renfield glanced up. “Yes.” He unfolded the letter and saw a dragon watermark on the top of the paper. His eyes widened and his heart pounded and he couldn't breathe. _The dragon and the cross..._

“Nightmares!' he cried, mind fuzzy. “Nightmares!”

The letter started out formal and stuffy and kept up the tone for a few long lines.

> _To Whomever It May Concern,_ _  
> _
> 
> _I have information for you concerning the reason for your trip to Wallachia. I do not wish to divulge much at this time, but I shall say that it has to do with the_ вампіри _. I would like for you to come to my castle so that we may discuss this matter in more detail._ _  
> _
> 
> _A coach shall be waiting for you at the north outskirts of this aforementioned village at ten o'clock this evening. It shall take you to my castle. I ask that the reader of this letter, whomever they may be, meet it and come to the castle._
> 
> _Sincerely,_

> _Count Wallachia Vlad III_

A jolt of something sharp plunged its way through Renfield's veins and he cried out. Johnathon bent down, putting a knee on the edge of the bed and wrapping a caring arm around him.

“Hey,” he soothed. “Are they because of that?”

Renfield glanced down at the letter, folding it up in the blink of an eye. “Perhaps.”

Johnathon reached over for it, snatching it from Renfield's grasp and standing up. Renfield jumped to his feet.

“It's from Count Wallachia!” Johnathon exclaimed.

“It is?” Renfield eyed the letter, wondering how he could get it back. The Count had sent it to _him,_ not Johnathon; it was _his_ letter, and something strong, like a voice, was telling him that _he_ was the one who had to meet this Count Wallachia person, not _Johnathon._

Johnathon glanced over at the Renfild. “Let's see!” He began to open it, tearing the envelope in his fervency. Renfield narrowed his eyes, cursing himself for being so quick to give up _his_ letter.

Johnathon's eyes gleamed. _“Renfield...”_ He tapped his fingers against the rich paper. “This is the heart of the matter.” He read the letter again. “This man...he can tell us what's happening here.”

Renfield stood behind Johnathon and peered over his shoulder. “And... Is that what you were looking for?” Johnathon glanced over at him, absolutely glowing with joy.

“It's _exactly_ what we've been looking for,” he replied. “Here.” He shoved the letter into Renfield's hands. “Hold onto this.”

Renfield beamed and put the letter into a pocket of his coat. “Yes, Johnathon.” He looked out the window – it must have been five in the evening by then. The sun was starting to go down; he only had about five hours to figure out how to make sure Johnathon didn't get on the coach.


	5. Chapter 5

**_Later That Evening_ ** **_  
_ **

Renfield liked Johnathon, he really did. Johnathon had given him a job that he could almost enjoy: travel the world, take pictures here and there with what was basically a free camera, then just make sure to meet those damn deadlines. It was money to keep him comfortable and supplied.

And Johnathon was a great guy, too. His sense of humor could be a bit bad at times, but he always seemed to know the right thing to say. And, best of all, he had the good sense not to nag about Renfield's background and personal life - that was what Renfield liked most about him, the fact that he minded his own business.

So, in the long run, Renfield felt really bad about what he was doing. He wished he didn't have to, but the voice in his head was making him.

Every evening, at seven P.M. sharp, Johnathon Harker liked to have a cup of hot herbal tea; that night, Renfield offered to make it for him.

“No, Renfield, I can do it myself.”

“But I want to,” Renfield replied, smiling. He steered Johnathon over to a chair and sat him down. “You like a spoonful of sugar in it, yeah?”

Johnathon sighed. “Mm-hm, that's right.” He leaned back in the chair, propping his feet up on the table. “Thanks in advance, Renfield.”

Renfield grinned and scurried back to the kitchen. He started up the tea and then looked around for a plate. He eventually found a package of paper ones hidden behind the toaster and opened it, sliding one out. Licking his lips, he reached into his pocket and pulled out a small bottle.

Renfield then unscrewed the lid and shook out a handful of sleeping pills. He wiped his palm on his thigh and picked out two of the white beads. He put them on the plate and then put the others back in the bottle and slipped it into his pocket.

The microwave sang out; Renfield sucked in a breath and crumbled up the pills with a spoon.

“Johnathon, where's the sugar?” he asked.

“I put it in the cupboard over the sink!”

Pills always tasted disgusting, so Renfield put in some extra sugar as a sort of effort to hide the taste. As a result, the tea was very sweet when Johnathon started to drink it.

“It's a good thing you're my photographer and not my secretary,” he joked. Nevertheless, he drank all the tea and Renfield's smile got bigger and bigger with each swallow.

Two hours later, Johnathon was feeling extremely sleepy. He yawned, checking the time on his watch and yawning again. His eyes were bloodshot, colored a sort of grey with excessive red.

“Are you tired, Johnathon?” Renfield wondered. The journalist shook his head.

“It's nothing I can't handle,” he mumbled. But then he got up to do something and teetered dangerously off to the side; Renfield leaped up, grabbing his arm.

“Thanks, Renfield.” Johnathon shook his head again and yawned loudly. “Maybe...maybe I _do_ need a quick nap.”

“I think so too, Johnathon.” Renfield began to steer Johnathon in the direction of his bedroom - but then Johnathon stopped, looking over at Renfield with those tired eyes.

“Promise you'll wake me up when it's time to meet the Count?”

Renfield nodded, smiling big. “Of course, Johnathon.”

When Johnathon woke up the next morning, all that was left of Renfield were his belongings and a note.

> _Johnathon-_ _  
>  _
> 
> _Tried to wake you, but you were too out of it. Went ahead to Wallachia's castle to try and arrange a meeting for you and him later._ _  
>  _
> 
> _Will take pictures._

> _Renfield_

\+ + +

The coachman had a big hood over his eyes, and he seemed to avoid Renfield's gaze, but then stare at Renfield when he thought the addict wasn't looking; it was unnerving.

“You are going to see Count Wallachia?” whispered the coachman.

Renfield nodded slowly and looked over at the two eerie black horses, then at the big black coach. He wondered fleetingly if he should take some pictures, but what on earth could an authentic black horse-drawn coach have to do with the disappearances and rumors of the Un-Dead? He decided that he was being silly and nervous about what he had done to Johnathon.

He reached out, trying to figure out where the hell the doorhandle was. He felt around, but there was only flat, vertical wood. The coachman looked down at him, then seemed to heave a sort of sigh – he reached down with a remarkably ornate cane and tapped at a silver thing Renfield hadn't noticed before.

Renfield flushed and grabbed the thing, pulling. A door popped open and he stepped inside, then shut it behind him.

The coachman shouted something in a language Renfield didn't understand and then there was a cracking sound. Renfield suddenly had the sensation of moving while not moving; the coach bounced and shook with every rock and Renfield pressed himself back into the seat, clutching at his inner right elbow.

The seats themselves were covered in red velvet, and, now that he looked, there were curtains on one side. He tried to reach out for one so he could look at it, but right then the coach went over a particularly nasty rock and he fell forward, onto his face.

Groaning, he rolled over and grabbed at the window-ledge. He pulled himself up, still continuing to groan all the while, then paused and looked out.

A cold silver fog glided over the land, covering all it dared. It reminded Renfield of a forest during a hurricane – small trees managed to poke out from the thick blanket, but it was mostly just a white sheet. But there, right in the middle of it, was a huge hill, and up on top of that was a castle.

The fog tried to hold it close, but the castle pushed it away. The architecture was harsh and direct, rather rectangular in a way. The stones were an ashy white, and the towers had dark lids that tapered up to great points.

Renfield slipped out his camera and positioned it on the edge of the window. When the ground was less shaky, he clicked a picture; Lucy would enjoy seeing it when he got back. She liked his photography, and the fact that she liked it made Renfield feel as though she liked _him._

Soon, the castle grew closer and it got colder. Renfield pulled up his hood and rubbed at his bare arms, teeth chattering. _I should have brought a better coat._

When the coach stopped, the coachman had the decency to open the door for Renfield. Head bowed, he whispered: “Wait here a moment whilst I go inform the Count of your arrival.” Then he pointed at something off to the side of him. “And do not touch the coffin, if you please.”

“What?” Renfield asked, turning around to look. It was true – there _was_ a coffin. He whirled back to ask the coachman about it, but the creep and the carriage and the horses were suddenly gone. Renfield was alone, save for a small bat flying in circles above his head.

Grumbling quietly to himself, he blew on his fingers, tapping his foot and looking back at the coffin. _How long does it take to tell someone who's expecting guests that I'm here?_

Of course, as he craned his head back, he very easily fancied the idea that the coachman could be having difficulties _finding_ the Count.


	6. Chapter 6

**_Meanwhile_ **

Dracula backed away from the fireplace, admiring his work. It had been five centuries since he had really had the need to light a fire as big as this one, so he wasn't entirely sure that he had done it right. However, there was a small little collection of flames burning, so that was a start.

“Thank Heaven for matches,” he muttered.

And thank Heaven he thought ahead enough to get some from the neighboring village.

A couple minutes later, the fire was acceptable for living guests and he pulled off his cloak. Deli stepped forward and took it, then disappeared off into the shadows to be with Maeva and Lurlene.

“Now," he hissed at them, "not a word from any of you.” Then he waved a hand in their direction and straightened up. He brushed some ashes off his clothes and dark hair out of his face, then picked up an old oil lantern Lurlene had lit for him.

He pushed open the entry doors and the man whirled around, trembling and backing away from the coffin.

Now that the Count didn't have a hood over his eyes, he was able to get a better look at Renfield, and he was surprised at how much of the man's features had been lost with distance and warped memories.

Renfield was taller than Dracula and rather lean – almost petite, really – but he was actually very nicely built. If he cleaned up considerably and removed that shocked expression of recognition from his face, then he could be attractive, in an odd way. Of course, when cleaning up, he would have to do away those clothes – they were absolutely ridiculous. He looked more like he was a member of some punk rock band instead of the photographer of one of the world's most distinguished journalists.

“Welcome to my house!” Dracula greeted, holding up the lantern next to his face. Renfield stared at him, rubbing at his arms and looking more than a bit alarmed.

“Enter freely and go safely,” the Count continued as he backed away. He beckoned for Renfield to follow and, after a pause, the other man did. The addict came inside and stopped after a few steps, looking around with his mouth agape.

Dracula shut the door and it closed with a great bang. He carried on: “And when you depart, do not forget to leave something...” He put the lantern down and stepped over to Renfield. “Of the happiness that you bring.”

Renfield stared at him and nodded. Then he reached up and pushed his hood out of his eyes. “Thank you, um, sir.”

Dracula held out a hand, smirking. “I believe it is a custom of you Englishmen to shake hands at this point, correct?”

Renfield glanced down at the hand and shrugged. “It's an old thing, only used for formal introductions nowdays.”

“I hope this can become something less than formal,” the Count remarked. Nodding politely, Renfield took Dracula's hand and they shook; the addict smelled wretched, far too contaminated to have his blood drunk except in a state of sheer desperation.

“Oh my,” Dracula said, “you are absolutely frozen, Renfield.”

Renfield started and pulled his hand away.

“How-How do you kn-kn-know my name?” he stammered.

Dracula smiled. “The ship's captain gave me all the details, my good man.” He reached out, putting his hand on Renfield's shoulder. “Come, sit in front of the fire. Would you like a blanket? It gets _so_ cold at night.”

“Um. Okay...”

“I shall be just a moment.”

Dracula lightly pushed Renfield over toward the seat in front of the simmering fireplace, then slipped upstairs. Maeva, Lurlene and Deli were watching from the above landing, and they snickered when he reached them. The Count frowned in their direction.

“Hush!” he hissed, ducking into the closest bedroom and pulling the top blanket off the bed. “Do not make me send you off, my dears.”

“Forgive us, Master,” Deli replied. The three women looked at each other, then pulled themselves back to watching the foyer; they were smiling.

Renfield had pulled off his hood when Dracula got back to him. He had mousy blonde-brown hair that seemed to defy gravity the way it stuck up in seemingly every possible direction. He also had a peculiar set of scars on his right cheek, like a scrape on the side of his face; Dracula wondered how he'd gotten them.

“Forgive the delay,” the Count said instead, handing Renfield the blanket. Then he leaned back against the side of the fireplace and watched the addict sneeze because of the dust. “The servants have gone home for the evening, you see, and, what's more, I have sent them all off on a bit of a vacation. The place shall be empty for a week.”

Renfield brushed away some dust on the blanket and eyed Dracula strangely, his eyes glued to the Count's lips. “That's nice.” He pulled the old and scratchy blanket around himself, nose twitching as more dust flew into the air.

Dracula coughed, casually putting his hand over his mouth and turning away. “I hope that arranging this meeting so late was of no inconvenience to you.”

“No, it wasn't,” Renfield replied. “Um, but my employer couldn't make it, th-though he would like to meet you. Later. I'm just here for pictures, ac-ac-actually.” With that, he reached into the folds of dust and cloth and pulled out a camera. Dracula drew in a breath and next thing Renfield knew, the Count was in front of him, hand wrapped around his wrist, long fingernails digging into his veins.

“Hey!” Renfield cried. The camera slid from his grasp and dropped to the floor. Upon impact, the flash went off and Dracula hissed, recoiling. Renfield stared at him, then shoved the blanket away and bent down, picking up the fiendish contraption.

“Forgive me,” Dracula apologized, brushing dust off the sleeves of his leather jacket. “It is just that I would prefer it if you do not take photographs...if you please.”

“Oh.” Renfield glanced down at his camera, eyes narrowing. “Well... If that's what you want, then okay...”

Dracula smiled, then inhaled a breath. “Yes, well...” He coughed again, brushing hair out of his eyes. “I am terribly sorry that you came all this way just to be refused. Perhaps I can make it up to you in some way?”

Renfield shook his head. “No, I'd really rather just get back to the village now. Could my employer come tomorrow?”

“I am afraid not,” Dracula stated; “for, you see, I have just sent my coachman away, and with all the other servants off on their little vacation...”

Renfield jerked. _“What?”_ he gasped. “You mean, I'm...I'm-I'm stuck here?” He looked back down at the camera, then up at Dracula. Suddenly, he stood up and began to run towards the entry hall.

Dracula hissed, leaping in front of the other man before he could escape. Renfield cried out, backing away, and then Dracula held out a hand; Renfield jerked back.

“You are staying right here,” Dracula hissed. He grabbed Renfield and pushed him back into the chair in front of the fireplace. The man shrieked, pulling his hands in front of his face and flailing around.

“Get away from me!” he cried.

Dracula reached into his pocket and pulled out a syringe. Earlier, he'd loaded it, but he had had no idea that he would be using it so soon. He took the little cover off of the needle and grabbed Renfield's arm, lying it on the edge of the chair and pulling away the bandages to reveal the red Y-shaped scar: the preferred injection sight.

_Relax, Renfield._

Renfield didn't listen to him, but instead screamed louder. Dracula shook his head and sank the needle into the crook of the addict's arm; Renfield jerked, crying out and grabbing onto Dracula, tears streaming down his face.

Dracula recoiled, but Renfield wouldn't let go. He had his hand wrapped tightly around the Count's wrist and didn't seem to notice when he was dragged. His pupils dilated and contracted and he seemed to lose any sort of ability to function.

Dracula pulled his arm up and Renfield shrieked at the force on his shoulder, head lolling backwards dangerously. Dracula shuddered and put his hand on Renfield's face, pulling the addict's head into a safer position. Then Renfield groaned and Dracula slowly got down onto his knees. He rested Renfield on the ground and heaved a sigh, hanging his head.

Somewhere, deep in the pitch blackness of his body, a small, quiet, and unheard part of him wondered if Elhemina was really worth it if he had to deal with people like this.


End file.
